For those who don’t live near the Northeastern United States, we had some snow this weekend. Those who do live near the Northeastern United States will note that I said “some” snow. Not THE WORST BLIZZARD IN HISTORY OH G-D WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE! Which was more or less how CNN and the Weather Channel reported the event. This is particularly humorous to those of us who have seen and driven in real snow. The kind that has the words “lake effect” preceding it. But I digress.

The first time we took the dog out in the snow, you could still see the grass. She decided this white stuff was more or less “wet”, and proceeded to basically ignore it.

The second time we took her out, a few hours later, there were about 4 inches on the ground. Her expression was the textbook definition of WTF.

I understand that -from the dog’s point of view- I was asking her to walk outside into the middle of a swirling, frigid, apocalypse and take a shit. I tried to be sympathetic. If the Almighty came down right after all four horsemen had ridden past my front door and casually requested that I mosey on outside and water the nearest bush while the scorched earth crumbled around me, I would probably balk as well. And I have to assume, as far as Mia was concerned, that this was more or less the situation being presented.

But damnit, if she peed in the house I was going to start googling Vietnamese soup recipes.

Mia is a schnauzer-daschund. In her, this mix produced an animal that was slightly longer of body than of leg. To put it bluntly, she’s a low-rider. And her eliminatory processes take place about an inch off the ground. We were about to walk out into a wet, shifting mass of cold that was going to be up her butt before she even bent down. She walked outside, looked at the unbroken hills and valleys of white that were practically at eye-level, and cowered next to the door. Fine. We’ll try again later.

This scene was more or less repeated, with slight variations, for the next 8 hours. I knew what was going to happen. Eventually, the dog would become so desperate that she would go in the snow. Once that happened a few times, she’d figure out that the world was not in fact ending, and we could settle into a normal (if somewhat colder) routine. All I really had to do was wait until she couldn’t hold it.

Which, based off my bullshit calculations and the last time she actually did her business, was going to be at 4 o’clock. In the morning.

By midnight, we’d reached about 8 inches of snow, and I gave up. “Vietnamese Soup” I muttered at her as I went to bed.

Where I was awakened, at approximately 4:15 in the morning, by a crying dog in my face. We went out. Operation Uno was a success. Operation Dos refused to commit. I tried very hard not to cry as I crawled back into bed at 4:30am. I knew what was coming next.

The whimpering and kibble breathe in my face at 6:30am was basically dog for “On the bright side, you were right.”

That is why I am only showing you the tastefully edited version. I think we can all agree that the gentlemen responsible for protecting our delicate sensibilities in this way deserves some sort of medal.